apart and alone
by thequeenofokay
Summary: She visits him once. She means to go again, but it's never the right time. / / they don't end, just fade, lose each other, change.


**notes:**

+ omg the trailer i'm dead.

+ this is like part specfic / part me fulfilling my adoration for relationships that don't actually end but just sort of... fade.

+ but it was less angsty than i intended. no really.

+ title from "cold war" by the antlers.

* * *

She visits him once.

His little cell in the Playground is hidden away in the maze of corridors that make up the building.

She's glad of it. It means she doesn't have to see the door that leads to his cell.

Doesn't have to think about him.

Doesn't have to think about what he did.

About what he took from her.

(At least, not until she closes her eyes, when those thoughts will swarm her again, merciless.)

It's been a horrible day. She's bruised and tired and frustrated, which is probably the worst possible time to go see him.

But there she is, standing outside the door. Her fingers are pressing in the code to the lock by the door before she can stop herself, and then she's slowly stepping inside.

She hasn't been in here before.

It's dim. The walls are padded, which jars her, because why would he need that? That would suggest he's some kind of danger to himself. Coulson doesn't really think Ward would…

She swallows down the thought.

Ward is in the middle of the room, on a chair. He's looking up at her, and it hurts her in a way that she resents him for.

She doesn't know what to say.

There's so much she could say, so much she wants to say, so many questions she has to ask.

And yet none of them are right. So she just stands there, facing him, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

'Are you okay?' he asks finally. His voice is hoarse, cracking with disuse.

Her mouth twists up into some semblance of a smile. 'Why wouldn't I be?'

'You're hurt.' He leans forwards a little, and she notices he isn't restrained. She doesn't flinch. Ine of the few things that he said that she trusts is true is "_I would never hurt you."_

'That's not really your concern any more.' She tries muster anger into her voice, but all she can manage is a quiet, sad sort of bitterness. _It should have been_, it says. _It could have been._

'I know,' he says. Silence stretches out, and then he says, 'I'm sorry.'

'For what?' Her voice still won't cooperate, there's still none of the malice she thought she felt.

He swallows, but he isn't looking away. 'For letting you get hurt.'

They both know he isn't talking about the cut on her lip or her bruised ribs.

'I know,' she says, and turns away. Because she does. She hates to admit it to herself, but oh she does. 'But it's too late.'

'I know,' and then, quieter, as she's closing the door again behind her, 'I'm sorry.'

.

.

.

She means to go again, but it's never the right time. And then, as the new Shield plants roots, he's moved away to a new prison.

She would go and visit him. Maybe for information. Maybe to just ask that question, the one she never asked last time.

(_Why?_)

(And maybe, though she hates herself for it, _do you love me?_)

But she never has the time. She's one of the highest ranking officers in the new organisation, and she just never has a moment to sit down, let alone visit someone halfway across the country in prison.

And then more than a year has passed, and Simmons is asking her quietly, 'Did you hear?'

'Hear what?' she asks, looking up from her laptop for a second, where she's trying to sift through a multitude of mission reports.

'About Ward.'

Skye blinks once or twice. 'No,' she says, and looks away.

'His trial was yesterday. They ruled him to valuable to be kept locked up.'

Skye bites down on the inside of her lip. She didn't hear. She could have been there. She wonders if Coulson kept it from her on purpose. Her workload has been, if possible, even worse than usual lately.

'Oh,' she says, and nothing more. No invitation for further conversation. She watches as Simmons leaves. Then, and only then, does she close her laptop, press her eyes shut.

There's a feeling in her gut. One that's been eating her inside out for a while.

Loss.

.

.

.

One day he's gone.

He just drops off the grid.

Not that she was watching.

But she was.

His file sits open on her laptop, in the background, silently tracking his movements.

And then he's just… _gone_.

He could be dead.

That's her first thought.

A slam in the stomach of he's _dead_ and that's the end and that's it.

But he wasn't on a mission. He had just been at the little apartment provided to him by Shield.

She alerts Coulson (voice neutral, because why should she care?), and checks in with his supervisor, who reports that he just _left_.

His bags are gone and so is he.

They don't have the resources to conduct a manhunt for one (expendable) rogue agent.

So that's it.

She closes his file from her desktop.

.

.

.

She thinks she sees him once.

In a hospital in Paris.

Which is stupid, because why would he be in a hospital in Paris.

She's only there because she went and got shot.

It was a stupid mistake. One that she should be above, but she'd lost focus and taken a bullet to the shoulder. He'd have been disappointed.

(Wrong, and she knows it. He's have been worried sick, telling her she did the best she could. A part of her longs for that.)

But she's sitting on one of the white plastic chairs, waiting for Trip to come pick her up, and she sees him. Down the other end of the hallway, by the vending machines.

She doesn't see him properly, just a brief glimpse. He's the right height, but he looks too worn.

Then again, so does she.

She glances away, and he's gone.

.

.

.

It's been a long night. Longer than most. Her clock is reading 3:04 AM, and she hasn't slept yet.

These are the worst times. These are the times when she sees names and faces of people she's hurt, killed even, and wonders if they deserved it.

These are the times when she can't block out the realisation of what she's become.

A killer. A suit. A faceless, heartless scrap of kevlar.

Everything she stood against.

And more than that… more than that she's _alone_.

She tells herself it's by choice. She takes the solo ops because it's how she works best.

But she always imagined, back when she was in her van, that someday it would work out. Someday her life would fall into place, she would fall in love, and she would have a family.

And for a few moments she'd _had_ that. But it had slipped away.

And now she's just a bitter, cold specialist like the rest of them. Like she'd thought Ward was.

She wonders where he is. If he's even still alive.

He has to be.

.

.

.

The clock glows 4 AM and she pulls a bag from under her bed.

She's _done_ with this.

She won't be this person any longer.

She rifles through her closet, and, in the darkness, manages to pull out a plaid shirt and jeans. She stuffs a few similar outfits into her bag, along with her laptop, a wad of cash and her gun (for protection _only_ - like Ward first taught her).

No one stirs as she leaves the base. She gets into the SUV, setting her phone to search for any signs of Grant Ward.


End file.
